Shelter
by Daliah Valley
Summary: SWC2014 WWII AU: Sherlock has returned from the war and is suffering under shell shock. Molly tries to help him in every way she can.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is my entry for SWC2014 on Tumblr. My prompt was originally a WWI AU, but I took artistic liberties and changed it to WWII, due to candied apples (which apparently are called toffee apples in not-America!) and lack of proper gun info for WWI. I am sorry if any British vernacular is off- I am American. (And no matter how hard I close my eyes and hope that America is just a bad dream, I don't live in England or Ireland when I awake. *sobs grossly*)

WARNING: _This is not a fluffy story. It deals with _**_PTSD, war, and death_**_. _**_If you can be easily triggered by any of these, please consider not reading this fic_**_. While I may not have written it as realistically as I had aimed for, I do care very much about you and your health, and I do not want anything I write to be a trigger for you. _

Anyway. This is unbeta'd, so I apologize for grammatical errors or anything. I tried my best to catch mistakes, but I didn't feel like waiting for my editor friend to get home and comb through it. I also apologize for any OOC dialogue or such. This is my first Sherlolly fic and I am a little wary of writing characters I love so much out of fear of misrepresenting them.

It actually ended up being like 12 pages so I am going to put it up in chapters.

And now, without any further ado, the story.

* * *

_SWC2014 WWII AU: Sherlock has returned from the war and is suffering under shell shock. Molly tries to help him in every way she can_

* * *

_Panic. There was panic everywhere. Screaming, so much screaming. Full throated, unreserved screaming. Men, full grown men and just hardly boys prayed to their gods and cried for their mothers. The rain slicked the packed ground and turned the trenches into sinkholes. His boots squished frantically through the mud as ran, shouting commands at his fellow soldiers. They needed to stay focused, to keep themselves together. But some men- it was as if someone took a string from inside of them and just tugged until the entire ball of yarn was a tangled mess, leaving them beyond all sense and hope. He whipped his head around, looking for an opening. Mud ran down his forehead and into his eyes, and he hastily wiped it away, spotting one and making his way to it. Halfway there, an explosion rocked the ground, throwing gritty dirt everywhere. It stung as it hit his face and eyes._

_ He fell to his knees, throwing himself down as bullets peppered down around him, finding a target in the men around him. He dropped to his stomach, his gun pressing painfully against his side. His elbows dug into the mud as he made his way to an empty spot and pushed himself up against the wall. He quickly pushed the hair plastered to his forehead out to the side, and pulled his cap down firmly. _

_He flashed the man next to him a wry smile, cracking a joke "Almost as bad as a thunderstorm, eh?" The man laughed replying, "Aye, but I've not got a woman here to calm down." He smirked, shaking his head. "Damn shame, too."_

_Sherlock laughed, but just seconds later, a bullet hit the man in the neck and he fell backwards, landing with a thump. Sherlock let out a shout of surprise and threw himself back, slamming painfully against the makeshift wall of packed mud and wood planks. He breathed heavily, his ears ringing and heart pounding frantically. Another explosion rocked the trenches, and he had to readjust his cap. He took a moment to recover his breath, then gathered his courage and turned around. His shoved his rifle firmly into place in the pocket of his shoulder. Taking a deep breath, he pushed himself up to see out of the trench, and faced the oncoming enemy. He leveled the gun at a man, took aim-_

_The man crumpled to the ground with a cry, crimson blooming on his side._

Sherlock woke with a cry, starting violently. Next to him, his wife stirred from her sleep at his outburst.

"Sherlock?" Her voice was still heavy with sleep. "Are you alright?"

His breath came in ragged gasps as he tried to shake the memory from his mind, to no avail. Molly sat up and softly touched his shoulder. He jerked away from her, stumbling out of bed and to the washroom, flicking the light on and shoving the door shut behind him. Molly squeezed her eyes shut and tried to block out the awful retching from the other side of the door. She brought her hands up to her face and covered her eyes, digging the heels of her palms into her eyes. Her small frame, highlighted by the light the glowed softly from under the bathroom door, shook with silent sobs. _I can't help him. I can't help him. I can't help him. Why did this have to happen to us?_

_Why?_

Molly turned from the egg she was cooking to set the jam down in front of him, along with a slice of toast. Sherlock made no recognition of either. He just stared at a spot on the wall over her shoulder, lost in his head. But this was nothing like when he was working over a case. Then, he had always had a fire in his eyes, and he would at least blink, occasionally mutter something. But now...now, his cold blue eyes were vacant and empty. His mouth never twitched in a smile, he never said anything, he never made any move. No twitches, no deep breaths, no soft murmuring. He had never even said her name.

When she had gone to the train station to pick him up, she stood waiting anxiously in the crowd of women welcoming home their husbands, lovers, brothers, fathers, sons, uncles, cousins, nephews. As the huge red steam engine pulled into the station, soldiers were eagerly leaning out the windows, ready to tip off onto the pavement. A couple soldiers had even managed to pry the doors open and jump out early. She watched as men swept up their little wives, pressing their mouths together in a long overdue kiss, or scooped their little ones up onto their shoulders for a ride. She tried to imagine what Sherlock would do. Would he kiss her? Would he pull her into a hug? Would he grab her hand and tell her how much he had missed her during that horrible war?

She looked down at the rose she held in her hand. Yes, it was a little bit over-romantic, and he would probably just roll his eyes at her, but she knew he would love the gesture anyway. She forced herself to stop rolling the stem between her fingers, not wanting to damage it, and looked back up.

Molly's breath caught in her throat as she saw him step off the train. He was still the same man she knew- but so _different._ The smoke from the train had made it hard to spot him at first, on that smoggy atmosphere, but he was still her husband, and she would know him anywhere. He was still tall, he still boasted a messy mop of curls, though it was a bit shorter. But he was much stronger, and his face was much tanner than it had been when she watched him board the train the first time. In his light brown jacket, covering a crisp white shirt, he looked like a different man. He glanced around, looking for somebody, looking for _her. _She took a step forward, reaching out to him. "Sherlock!" Tears of joy sprung into her eyes- he was home. He was finally, _finally_ home.

But when his eyes made contact with hers, her face splitting smile faded, and she knew just how different he had become.

As he made his way toward her, the pounding of her heart increased to a deafening roar, and she was surprised he couldn't hear it. He reached her, finally, and looked down at her. The pounding in her chest quit, for her heart had simply stopped beating. This wasn't Sherlock. This wasn't her husband. His eyes were no longer just a sharp blue. They were cold, vacant, and _angry. _

He looked at her for a few moments longer before brushing past her, leaving her standing alone with a rose in hand and tears rolling down her cheeks. And in her chest, a cold, metallic, worried feeling settled in her chest.

The feeling never left.

"Honey, you need to eat. Do you want me to fix you something else?" She asked firmly but kindly, her hand gripping a spatula and the other resting on her hip. He made no response, not even an acknowledgement that she had addressed him. She tried again. "Sherlock, do you want something else to eat?" Nothing. Frustration caused tears to spring to her eyes and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't push them down. Her throat ached with the effort of not bursting into hysterics, and there was a slight tremble to her hands and she sat down across from Sherlock. Setting the spatula down next to the salt and pepper shakers, she reached across the table and placed her hand within his reach. "Sherlock, please. Please, at least look at me." She choked back a sob. "Please."

Her head dropped into her arms, softly crying for a few moments. _Pull yourself together, Molly. He needs you now. He needs you to be strong. _She sucked in a sharp breath and lifted her head, letting go of the tablecloth that she had crushed in her hands. Giving him a watery smile, she cleared her throat and spoke softly, pulling her arms back to her body. "It will be okay, everything will be okay." And, despite his blank expression, despite having not responded in the slightest to anything she said, she had to hope. She had to hope that he would someday respond to her.

"It will be okay," she said, and stood up. She ran the back of her hand over her eyes, and returned to the stovetop. She scraped the burnt crisp of what was once an egg off the frying pan and dumped it in the bucket for the compost pile. As she cracked open a new egg, and dropped it into the pan, she whispered to herself over the sizzling, "It will be okay."

_It will be okay._

* * *

Molly looked around the fancy room, feeling incredibly small, and shrunk even farther into the plush seat. She watched children play with matchbox cars or huddle close to their parents, afraid. She understood the fear. The room around her that was obviously decorated in an attempt to be warm and friendly was simply intimidating. Crystals hung from lampshades, the burgundy curtains matched the deep red carpet, the wallpaper was tasteful but elegant, and the end-tables were crafted from expensive wood and polished to almost a mirror-like state. One couldn't help but feel inferior in that room.

"Mrs. Holmes?" a rough voice called, and she snapped her head up, the hastily stood. A large man with a professional air took up a large expanse of the doorway.

"I- that's me," she smiled nervously.

"Follow me to the back, if you'll please."Molly grabbed her purse and adjusted her skirt before following the man to the back. He held the door open as she squeezed through, and she nodded and murmured her thanks.

The doctor shut the door behind him, and the heavy-set man hobbled over to his desk and fell into his chair, wheezing. "Now, what can I help you with today?" He asked from behind his walrus-like mustache, leaning back.

"Well, sir, it's my husband. He, uh- he isn't the same," she stuttered, and then took a deep breath. "My husband recently returned from the war. And, um, he has been really…not himself. He looks off into the distance, he won't eat, he has awful nightmares, but he won't tell me about them- he won't tell me anything at all. He hasn't said one word to me since he got back, about a week ago." She twisted her fingers nervously together in her lap. "Please, can you tell me what it might be?"

The doctor- whose impressive gold nameplate pronounced him Doctor Jeremy Phillips- had been listening intently, with one arm propping him against the armrest of his chair, and the other hand slowly stroking his mustache. After a beat, he took a deep breath and leaned forward, crossing his arms on the desk.

"Mrs. Holmes, may I ask you a personal question?" He asked, his voice taking on the soft tone of an adult speaking to a child. Molly, confused, nodded, and he continued. "Does your husband know you're here?"

Taken aback, she stuttered, "Excuse me?"

"I have an idea of what may be wrong with your husband. But it may be a little over your head."

"Over my head?" Molly's temper flared up. "Dr. Phillips, I can assure you, whatever his problems are, they are certainly _not _'over my head'."

There was a tense silence before the man took a deep breath and nodded. "Alright." He leaned back in his chair again. When he spoke again, his voice was more professional than it had been before. "It seems that your husband may be suffering from shell-shock. It is a condition that often appears in soldiers returning from war."

Molly sat still for a few moments, processing the information. "So you're saying the war did this to him?" Molly had a hunch that that was it, that the war was to blame, and she wasn't wrong.

"Yes."

"Is- is there anything that can be done for him?"

* * *

Sherlock sat in the darkened living room, perched on the sofa vacantly. His back remained straight, his posture impeccable, and he almost smile as he thought of how his mother would be proud of him for having such grace. Almost. His faces' contours were highlighted sharply as the dark shadows played across his cheekbones and brow. He was pale, drawn, almost like a living corpse, a ghost. His eyes remained stationary under his eyelids while his mind ran at top speed, the sound of a freight train filling his mind. He vaguely heard somebody- Molly- come through the front door, shutting it behind her. He opened his eyes slightly to peer at her while her back was turned and detachedly noticed she had been to a doctor- a psychologist, judging by her left hand- but he soon shut his sticky eyelids again and returned to the world in his mind.

_John._

Pain shot through his chest, crushing and burning him like a heated iron mold, slowly being adjusted tighter and tighter, until he couldn't breathe. His head spun, but amidst the fog of pain, he heard his wife speak. He didn't know what she had said- likely a protestation about his not having eaten in, what, three days? Four? It didn't matter- but he couldn't make out anything beyond the words that spun in his head.

_John._

_You killed him._

_You killed John._

_**You **__killed John._


	2. Chapter 2

"I heard the fair is in town this week. I was thinking maybe we could go on the weekend, to celebr- to get away, just the two of us," Molly stammered nervously, playing with the hem of her dressing gown. She was looking at him from the doorway of their bathroom. He stood on the other side of the room, his back to her as he faced the wardrobe, slowly pulling on his off his own deep blue night gown. When he made no reply, as she expected, she continued softly. "I was wondering that, if maybe we did, we could invite Mary."

Her husband froze at the mention of Mary's name. He had one arm out of the gown, the other bent at an awkward angle to try to get it out. Molly ventured to call to him softly, hoping quietly that maybe he was willing to talk; maybe he could speak to her, and maybe today was the day.

"Sherlock?"

It wasn't.

He stood frozen for a few moments before pulling his gown all the way off and dropping it on the ground in front of their wardrobe. He turned and padded his way to the bed, climbing in stiffly and pulling the covers up to his chin, lying in his side away from her. Molly sighed and turned the lights in the bathroom off, and then pulled her own gown off, sliding into bed next to Sherlock. She propped herself up with one arm and stretched over him to reach the lamp on the table next to him. She turned it off, but didn't move for a beat.

She missed him. Lord, how she missed him. His smile, he anger, his body heat, his eccentricities, the way his fingers curled over hers casually while they would eat, his hand dwarfing hers. She missed hearing his voice, she missed the way their toes pushed together while they were falling asleep, and she even missed the smell of his cigarette smoke lingering on his skin after a long case. She just missed him, her husband, Sherlock Holmes. She didn't know how to bring him back. Molly noticed there were hot tears running silently down her cheeks. She sighed and dropped her head a little, her nose brushing his shoulder. And, oh, how she wanted him back. She wanted him to hold her while they reclined together in the afternoon, she wanted him to play the violin softly for her again, she wanted him to kiss her softly, she wanted him to insult her cooking even though she knew he secretly liked it. She missed him, and she wanted him back. But how could she do that? How could she get him back?

She finally pulled her arm back and curled up next to him, inches away from his back. Slowly, cautiously, she inched closer to him until her shoulder rested against his back, and then turned and wrapped her arm around him in a hug. She felt him tense up, but he didn't push her away, and Molly smiled softly through her tears at this one small victory. She would get her husband back. Slowly but surely, Sherlock Holmes would return to her.

* * *

"So Molly, where's Sherlock today?" Mary squinted at Molly from beneath her sunhat. The sound of people laughing bounced around the spacious field, and Molly scooted a little closer to her friend, her dress catching on the bale of hay they occupied. She tugged at the material until the pesky hay gave, and she cleared her throat to answer the question.

"He stayed at home," she replied. "He isn't feeling well."

Mary tutted and shook her head, giving Molly a concerned look. "I am sorry. What is wrong with him?"

"The doctor said that since he suffered so much trauma with the war, he might be suffering from, uh," She frowned tightly as she tried to remember what the doctor had said. "He said it was…oh! Shell-shock."

A surprised look crossed Mary's features. "You went to see a doctor? Sherlock let you go to a doctor?"

Her companion shook her head. "No. He didn't know I went." She looked down and fiddled with her rings. Mary looked even more surprised, glancing around in amused disbelief.

"This is just a conversation full of firsts," she joked, and Molly smiled weakly. Mary leaned closer, her laugh fading into a concerned smile. She snaked her arm around Molly's shoulders and squeezed. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"I just-" Molly stopped and huffed, frustrated. "He won't talk, he won't eat; he won't do anything! I don't know how to help him." She fell into Mary's side, her friend wrapping her arms around her in concern.

Mary nodded, taking in what Molly had told her. "What did the doctor say?"

"He said that there was a large chance of him recovering, but it may take a while. But it has already been so long! How long must it last?"

"Hey," she said, and tipped her head forward to meet Molly's eyes. "I know how you feel. John-" A pained look flickered in her eyes when she said his name, but it disappeared just as quickly and she continued. "John had a really hard time when he got back from war, the first time. Maybe not as severe, but we all know Sherlock is a drama queen." Molly rolled her eyes with a smile. Mary continued, "Don't worry too much about it. It may seem hopeless now, but I promise you, this doesn't last forever."

"But how can you be sure?"

Mary shrugged. "Sherlock has to eat sometime. He acts like a god, but he is still human."

There was a lull in the conversation for a few peaceful moments, before Molly spoke softly.

"How can you be so strong, Mary?" Molly sighed. "You're always pulled together. I don't know how you do it." Mary laughed and squeezed her friend's shoulders softly.

"Years of practice. I used to be a nurse."

Molly nodded, her chin brushing against her friend's shoulder. She then sat up, and squared her shoulders.

"I heard the sound of popcorn over there." She pointed toward a popcorn vendor and stood. Mary gathered her purse and stood with her. Mary looped her arm through Molly's, and they began their walk to the popcorn. Molly felt better after talking to Mary, and she was determined to have a good time today, and not worry about her husband for a couple hours.

* * *

Molly came home smelling of sweat and popcorn, and looking like she had ran through a cornfield. That was mainly due to the fact that she had gotten lost in the cornfield maze with Mary and had taken close to two hours to find her way out. After finally escaping the maze, they celebrated by buying toffee apples before heading home. Molly dropped Mary off at her house and drove the rest of the way back to 221B Baker Street. She walked through the door, waved hello to the sweet landlady Mrs. Hudson, and continued up to the apartment with a half eaten candy apple in one hand, and her purse in the other. She was smiling like a child- it had been quite some time since she was able to have a girl's day out, and she couldn't help feeling slightly relieved that Sherlock hadn't come.

He was sitting in his arm chair, staring into the fire. But his stare wasn't blank, not this time. Molly almost dropped her apple as her heart leapt into her throat. Keeping her face calm, she walked to the kitchen and set her bags on the table, then padded into the living room and took a seat on the couch. She pulled her shoes off but watched Sherlock out of the corner of her eye. He hadn't moved yet, but she saw his fingers twitch. She relaxed back, giving off an air of calm, all the while her heart beat in her chest at a rapid pace and she couldn't quite catch her breath. She didn't want to get her hopes up, but-

And then he spoke.

"Molly," he murmured, his voice rumbling in the air like static electricity, a storm-cloud about to break. "I-"

"I love you," she burst out, unable to contain herself. She immediately blushed and shrunk back, mentally berating herself for cutting him off. He didn't acknowledge what she said- he hadn't even turned from the fire yet- but paused for a moment before finishing his sentence.

"I am hungry."

His wife felt her heart dip a little, and watched him for a moment. His face was contrasted sharply, the fireplace lighting up his face but the shadows hiding where the fire's light couldn't reach. Then, Molly sighed and turned to the kitchen.

* * *

_"Sherlock!" John shouted over the roar of the river. He ducked behind a rock, a bullet whizzing past, before calling out again. "Sherlock!" _

_The ambush hadn't been expected. But that was the danger of war. Living the unexpected. _

_Sherlock whipped his head around from the bank of the river to catch sight of his best friend. The doctor was having a hard time crossing through the rushing current, and the enemy was fast approaching. John glanced over the rock and turned back to Sherlock. "Cover me!"_

_Sherlock nodded and yanked his rifle off of his shoulder. He leveled it at the woods behind the river bank. John Watson, trusting his friend to take out any man who came forward with the intention of shooting him. Sherlock watched with sharp eyes, shooting down anyone who came in range with the intent of killing his friend._

_John was about ten yards from the shore when he stopped, his body jutting forward and his eyes widening, before falling forward into the water. Sherlock's heart stopped and he heard himself screaming John's name, his voice breaking at the end of his name. There was a man who had sneaked to the edge of the clearing, somehow escaping Sherlock's notice, and shot him. The man shot John._

_So Sherlock shot the bastard._

_He flung his gun away, stumbling forward and wading into the water to grab John. He flung John's arm over his shoulder and pulled him to shore. He held John in his arms as he spoke._

_"John, look at me, keep your eyes on me," he pleaded. John was having trouble focusing on Sherlock's face, and Sherlock shook him slightly, not thinking straight. "John!"_

_"Sherlock," John croaked, but his eyes rolled to the side before focusing on him again._

_"I am sorry, I am so sorry. I didn't see him. He was just there-"_

_"You're crying," John noted absently. Sherlock realized there were burning tears coursing down his cheeks._

_"Of course I'm crying," he replied heatedly. "You got shot!"Sherlock felt his heart cracking as he spoke, the cords that held it together snapping little by little._

_"So…" John bit out, his face contorting in pain. "So you aren't a machine."_

_Sherlock tried to laugh, but it came out strangled. "John, stay with me. Please, just focus."_

_John's hands latched onto the front of Sherlock's coat in a death-grip. "You were my best friend, Sherlock, my best friend. Never forget that," he said desperately, his eyes locked on Sherlock's. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but John started choking on something, coughing painfully. His hands fell away from Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock suddenly realized that he wasn't apathetic to the idea to a deity, and found himself praying fervently to whoever was listening- 'please, let him live. Save John Watson.' _

_"John," Sherlock whispered as John fell silent. He was alive, his heart was beating, but his chest wasn't moving, he wasn't breathing, his eyes were closed, and all Sherlock could think was how John never told him to piss off, how John had hugged him after Sherlock gave his Best Man speech, how John was his best friend, and how he was responsible for John's death._

**_I killed John Watson. _**

_The final cord in his heart broke, and he heart fell in two._

**I ****_killed my best friend_**_._

_There were people surrounding him, a pair of hands pulling John from Sherlock's grasp and pulling Sherlock up off the ground, tugging him along. He hadn't a clue what he was doing. He could only think about John Watson, his best friend, the best man in the world, and that he killed him._

* * *

_A/N: So! How did you like it? I don't want to beg for reviews or anything, but a lot of people followed this ficlet and nobody reviewed it. Which, I have to admit, it is a little disappointing. Just drop me a line, let me know what I did wrong or right, if you loved it, if you hated it, (though personally I would prefer the former rather than the latter. XD) I will try to post the rest of it tomorrow. ^_^ _

_Much Love,_

_Daliah._


	3. Chapter 3

**DISCLAIMER: **I guess I should mention I don't own Sherlock. Not mine. I just have the first season, but I don't have the copyrights to that.

* * *

Molly as hardly surprised when Sherlock stumbled out of bed and to the living room. It wasn't a new occurrence; almost every night he was haunted by the ghosts of war. Occasionally, he would mummer a name, and tense up, twitching. It was the crying that often woke Molly. Her husband didn't sob openly, because that would be too average for him. But he would gasp, or snarl, with tears coursing down his cheeks. She had woken him too many times to count, and every time, he ignored her attempts to help him. He would simply awake with a gasp and stagger out of the room.

This time was no different. She shook him out of his nightmares and he left. Except this time, he came back. She was so used to falling asleep to the noise of her own head and the coolness of the emptiness next to her that when she felt his body slide back in the bed next to her, she was too surprised to move. His arms went around her waist and he tucked her head under his chin. Molly couldn't breathe, she couldn't move, for fear of breaking the spell. It wasn't until she felt his breathing slow to a steady rhythm that she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.

They developed an unspoken routine; Molly would get up, make breakfast, and they'd eat in silence until Molly dressed for work. She was a pathologist at Bart's Memorial Hospital, one of the only female workers there. It was a fight for her to even land the job, but when she had, she still faced serious adversity in the form of prejudice from her male co-workers. Sherlock was one of the only people who would willingly work with her. Not to say he was nice- but he wasn't very kind to anybody, so she couldn't really call him sexist. It was a little emptier without him at the hospital- but she worked anyway. She would dress, kiss his cheek, and though he never responded, she kept doing it. Then she'd be out the door, leaving him alone until she returned from work, tired and usually rather irritated. But she would still make them tea and food. The meals in the afternoon were often filled with Molly's chattering, venting to him like she always had. They'd retire to bed at their separate times, Sherlock heading off to bed hours after Molly. He'd wake from a nightmare, leave for a few moments, and then return to his wife for silent comfort. And she gave it willingly, every time.

It went in that way, like clockwork, every day for a few weeks. On the fourth week since they'd developed the pattern, something unexpected happened.

Molly had charged through the door to her flat, flustered and feeling rather miserable. She made tea and fell onto the couch, curling up and closing her eyes. Feeling sorry for herself, she decided that she would prefer to just sleep instead of make dinner. But, it was expected of her to make food for her husband, and plus, she knew Sherlock wouldn't eat unless she made him. So she drained her tea and dragged herself off the couch to the kitchen.

She had pulled out a couple potatoes and was getting ready to chop them up when a hand latched onto her wrist. She looked up in surprise.

"You don't need to make anything," Sherlock spoke softly. "I know you aren't hungry, and I don't need to eat quite yet."

Molly mulled this over in her mind. She was so tired, and the idea of bed sounded more than inviting to her. She was relieved to have the opportunity to sit down after standing on her feet for most of the day. But she had to feed Sherlock…

Sensing her inner struggle, he gently tugged her away from the kitchen and into the bedroom, pulling her to the bed. Molly smiled at Sherlock through heavy lidded eyes as he pulled her close to him.

"Thank you," she whispered, half asleep already. He made no response except to sigh softly into her hair. Molly put her hand to his chest and snuggled closer before falling into the sweet relief of sleep completely.

* * *

_ They told him that what happened to John wasn't his fault, but he knew better. If he had just seen the soldier, he could've warned him, he could've done something. But he hadn't, and John had died because of it. After they took John away, they had told Sherlock that he had to keep going, and took him into the forest with the rest of his troop. They kept running, and Sherlock had stumbled blindly after them, leaves and twigs snapping underfoot and scratching at his face mercilessly. He noticed absently that he had been shot in the arm, but it was just graze, and the blood that soaked his jacket was more of a danger than the actual shot. _

_ But when he stumbled, he realized that he must have miscalculated how much blood he had lost. His wound was just a flesh wound, no more than a scratch, but he hadn't known how long ago he got the shot, and so he didn't know how much blood he had lost. He tried to estimate, but his brain was so foggy, and he was so tired…so tired. Sherlock considered just lying down and sleeping…_

_But then the man on his right caught him and flung Sherlock's arm over his shoulder, pulling him along. _

"_We have already lost men," he said with fierce determination. "We won't lose any more." He pointed at the area of light ahead of them that signified a safe spot. "There is a camp there," he assured the injured man. "If we can make it to camp, we will get you patched up, and everything will be okay." _

_ In other circumstances, Sherlock would have agreed with him. He would have tried harder to run, to make it to the clearing, where they would be safe. But he couldn't think straight, not with the shock of John getting shot and the blood loss. His usually so sharp and active mind was in a haze. And when he stumbled for the second time, he didn't try to move. It was only when the man forcibly pulled him up and yelled, "We have to move, we have to go, now!"_

* * *

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock could hear someone shouting. There was someone shaking his shoulder, trying to wake him up.

Sherlock's head swam as he broke through his sleep to see his wife clutching his shoulder tightly.

Molly?

There was a strange burning sensation in his chest, and he looked around, disoriented. Why was he at home? Why was Molly here? Where was John?

He felt his blood drain away from his face and his limbs freeze as the remembrance of what had happened hit him like a brick wall.

"Molly," he croaked. "I killed John."

Molly's hand fell away from his shoulder in shock. "What?"

"I killed John," he repeated, his voice taking on the tone of a broken man. "I killed him. I tried to save him, but there was soldier on the other side of the river, and he shot John- I couldn't stop him. I was too late. I was too late."

Molly felt her heart shatter at the sight of the man she loved so dearly in such a broken state. She wrapped her arms around his frame and pulled him into her lap, ignoring how much lighter he was than before. She ran her hands through his hair, and pressed a kiss to his brow. "Shhh," she soothed. "You didn't kill him, honey. You didn't kill John."

"I did," he protested weakly. His face pushed against Molly's stomach as he shook his head. "John's dead because of me."

"No, he isn't. You don't understand Sherlock, John isn't dead. He is alive. John is alive. Mary got the telegraph yesterday."

Sherlock stopped moving. She felt his breath hot against her nightshirt as he spoke again. "What did you say?"

"I said, John is alive. Mary got the telegraph yesterday. He is coming home in a week."

He lifted himself up slowly, and looked her in the eye for the first time since he had returned home. "John is alive?" His body seemed to have stopped working, because he couldn't breathe, and he couldn't feel his heart beating. Molly nodded, with tears in her eyes, and smiled at him.

"Yes," she said simply.

Sherlock didn't know what to think, what to say. He sat there for a moment, processing the information. "I didn't kill him." He spoke slowly.

She shook her head. "No."

He found, unexpectedly, that he was laughing. Yet, he felt tears still falling from his eyes. He pulled Molly against his chest, pressing his lips to her hair. She pulled back, looking into his ever changing blue eyes, and Sherlock saw that his wife was crying. Confused, he touched a hand to her cheek. "Why are you crying?"

She smiled through her tears. "Because I have missed you."

Sherlock's heart broke. He had done this to her? "Molly, I-"

She cut him off as she kissed him swiftly. "I know." Sherlock nodded, and, for the first time since he had gotten home, he kissed her. Molly's heart soared as they embraced. _Now _he was home.

That night, as they were drifting off, Molly heard Sherlock's voice through a cloud of sleep.

"I love you, too."

* * *

A/N: I didn't mean it. I love you guys, I take it back. Please forgive me. I know begging for a review is awful and I am ashamed of myself. *sobs* I love you, please don't leave me. It's me, not you. TAKE THIS CHAPTER AS RECOMPENSE!

Hey look at that I actually stuck to a schedule for like the first time ever go me! *cheers softly* So…did you like it? I added a bit to it because I was told it went to fast. But yeah I hope your expectations weren't too high for this and hey also John lived! I am not that awful as to kill him off. I jus wanted to HURT YOU. With love. And Sherlock.

I actually do have a question. I am considering adding just one more chapter to tie things up a bit. I have it ended here, but I am having ideas…yes? No? It may feature a certain not-dead man… ;)

Thank you for reading! *Phantom's voice* Readers, I loooo_ooove_ yoooo_ooou_. (Don't get me started on that musical, I will never stop gushing. I love it, it kills me, I want to have Ramin Karimiloo sing to me every day.)

Love,

Daliah.


	4. Chapter 4

**DISCLAIMER: All rights go to Aurthur Conan Doyle and the BBC, respectively. **

* * *

"No, I don't have a clue where you got that idea. I did not hide- don't roll your eyes at me Mary, you know how he is."

"John, I am many things, but I am not a liar," Sherlock interjected haughtily.

"Bullocks!" John exclaimed. Mary hid a grin, looking across the room to Molly, who stood next to her husband. Mary rolled her eyes and mouthed _'These two!' _

Molly giggled and nodded. _'Like children, they are,' _she silently replied, gesturing to Sherlock and John. John was laid up in the hospital bed, but his face was full of a smile. Sherlock wore a similar grin, his eyes full of mischief.

"Seriously John," Molly spoke up, and John turned to her. "It is good to see you again."

John nodded to her kindly. "Thanks, Molly." Molly smiled at him for a few seconds before glancing at Sherlock and elbowing him none-too-subtly in the ribs. Sherlock flinched away and glared down at Molly. She looked pointedly at John and then back to Sherlock. He rolled his eyes.

"Fine," he sighed. Then he looked to John. "My life was worthless without you," he deadpanned. "I can never express the depth of my joy that you are still here. In my life." He cleared his throat. "Alive."

John stared at him for a moment, and Sherlock gazed back. An awkward silence fell over the room, until John sniggered. "Shut up, idiot."

Sherlock's façade cracked and soon, the hospital room was full of laughter again. Mary was holding John's hand as he laid in the hospital bed, Molly had her arm looped through Sherlock, standing in the door way. The two couples chatted for a few moments more, before John yawned and shifted with a flinch.

"Oh, I think that is probably our signal to go," Molly said. Mary shook her head.

"No, stay! John is just being a baby. He doesn't need sleep," she teased. John protested too, after shooting his wife a playful warning.

"You should stay," he said. "We can have some of my hospital pudding for dinner."

"As tempting as the sounds, I am afraid we have to decline," Molly replied kindly. "I have the early shift tomorrow, and Mycroft is probably due to swoop in at any moment, to 'check in' on Sherlock." She knocked her elbow into Sherlock's.

"Well, if you must," Mary stood up from her seat next to John, and moved in to hug the couple.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Before we go, I do have some things I would like to say to John," he said. When nobody made a move, he continued, "Alone."

Mary gave Molly a look with raised brows, and whispered. "Let's leave the lovebirds alone."

"We're not gay!" the two men chorused together, but their protests fell on uncaring ears. When the door closed behind the girls, Sherlock looked to John.

"I don't really know how to say this," he began, not making eye contact with John. "You know I am not very good with expressions of sentiment. It is something- it is an area I am not very well versed in."

John shifted uncomfortably. "Sherlock-" he began, but Sherlock cut him off.

"No, I- I have to say this."

John looked at him a moment longer, before nodding stiffly. "Go on."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "In the- during the ambush, I didn't mean to miss that man. I don't know how I didn't see him, and I haven't been able to sleep very well with the knowledge that my mistake nearly killed you- my best friend." He shuffled from one foot to the other. "I am sorry-" he let out a breath, and a shaky laugh. He ran a hand nervously through his raven curls.

"Sherlock, I know," John said, just as uncomfortably. "You don't have to say anything. It is fine."

"I just wanted to say I am sorry."

John nodded. "Alright. Apology accepted."

Sherlock coughed. "Good."

There was a beat, and then Sherlock eyed his friend. "You also may want to start using a less heavy shaving cream," he said. "And maybe consider letting Mary cut your hair for you next time."

The doctor rolled his eyes. "Get out."

* * *

Molly looped her arms with Sherlock's as they walked out of the hospital. She looked up at him.

"So what did you have to say to John?" she inquired. He shrugged.

"Oh you know, the usual."

Molly stood on her tiptoes and leaned into his side. "You're lying," she sang in his ear.

"And you, Molly Hooper-Holmes, lied about having the morning shift at Bart's," Sherlock looked at her out of the corner of his eyes.

It was her turn to shrug. "Maybe I had a good reason to," she offered innocently.

Sherlock raised a brow. "And why, pray tell, would that reason be?" He already knew the reason, obviously, but he wanted to hear her say it.

Instead of answering, Molly hummed and posed a question. "Would you be willing to play the violin for me tonight?"

Sherlock considered it. "I could," he said slowly. "Would you wish me to?"

"Yes," she nodded. "I really would."

"Then consider it done."

Molly smiled. They walked a few minutes in silence, before she spoke again. "I am glad I don't have the early shift tomorrow."

"I would think you would mourn the loss of getting up at an ungodly hour to spend all day with the dead," Sherlock replied, his sarcasm evident. Molly rolled her eyes.

"No," she emphasized. "I get to spend a couple more hours with you."

"I am not much better company than a cadaver."

"No, you're not," Molly nodded in agreement. "But I do like you a bit better than a body. Plus," she added, almost as an afterthought. "I have missed you."

Sherlock made a noise of discontent. "Missed me? I have been back for some time, Molly."

"Maybe in body, but not in soul. You had been so haunted by the war that you were locked in your own head for weeks. It wasn't until I told you John was still alive that you- that you got better."

Sherlock was silent for a beat. "I had not realized it affected you so much." He lowered his voice. "I am truly sorry."

"Oh, it isn't that important now. I am just grateful you are back," she said as they reached 221B. Sherlock unlooped his arm from hers to open the door.

"Shall we?" He gestured for her to enter, and she playfully nodded her thanks.

"How kind of you, sir."

With that, Sherlock and Molly Holmes entered the flat together, shutting the door behind them. There was peace, until a crash could be heard, followed by Mrs. Hudson's sharp scream.

"Why is there a pig head in the icebox?!"

"It's an experiment!"

_FIN._

* * *

A/N: So that was the fianl chapter. Kind of short, but I wanted to have some sort of conversation between John and Sherlock. I hope you guys enjoyed this! I can honestly say that I am actually rather happy with the final result of it. I am very grateful for every single review. You guys are the absolute sweetest. *hugs and kisses for all* And a special thanks to the Monter, my editor friend, for her hand in the deal. :* Love you!

_Wishing you all hot cocoa and little British cuties (*the Ben**cough**the Tom*),_

_Daliah._


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